


It's Not Quite Jane Austen

by sk8rpssockpup (MissIzzy)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: F/M, Ficmix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-08
Updated: 2010-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissIzzy/pseuds/sk8rpssockpup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How would a love story between Britain's top two tennis stars have really gone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Quite Jane Austen

**Author's Note:**

> Started after Andy & Kim Sears split, in response to an infamous Guardian article which speculated on a future relationship after their first appearance at the Hopman Cup, which her only just turning 16! Word got around when I was about halfway through that Andy & Kim might be entertaining a reconciliation, which I mostly wrote around, though I posted before anything was confirmed.

**Heather Nova-Truth and Bone**  
 _I've got this crazy dream..._  
  
The first time Laura Robson dared contact Andy Murray after that Hopman Cup and subsequent Australian Open she had the excuse of being stuck in Alabama due to the volcano whose name nobody could pronounce and thus being bored, and he was in a van traveling to Barcelona, so was probably bored too.  
  
It was a weird conversation, not least because his reception kept going in and out. At least he sounded happy enough to hear from her. Neither brought up the topic of tennis, and especially not of his game lately, though she somehow felt it lurked around anyway. She wished she was the sort of friend to him that he would talk about it; surely there was some people he confided in. But instead he told her short anecdotes from the road that hadn’t made it onto Twitter, and she wondered if her own stories could hope to match them. He also gave her tips on how to amuse herself, and she thanked him for them. “But now I think you just don’t want to hear from me.”  
  
“Always assuming the worst of me,” he sighed. “No, I love hearing from you. Especially now; I’m bored out of my skull, and I’m stuck in this van. I just got off the phone with my mum, and before that my brother.”  
  
“And your sort-of girlfriend?” As soon as it was out of her mouth she wished she hadn’t asked; she wasn’t sure she was even supposed to know their status, and also, she didn’t want to hear the answer.  
  
But even so, she was surprised by the gruffness of his “Yeah, her too,” followed by his saying, “So, did you-” Though then he lost his signal. When it came back a minute later, she took the hint, and started talking about some story she had heard about the Norweigian Prime Minister being stuck in the States. By then he and his team were approaching Barcelona, and they ended the call. She lay back on her hotel bed and closed her eyes, her heart hammering too hard.  
  
It had been silly of her in the first place to wish for it; it would be even if he and Kim Sears didn’t work it out-and she ought to hope that they did so he could be happy. He probably still saw her as just a little girl, and found her fun to play with, but wouldn’t consider dating her even when she was older.  
  
But she still hadn’t been able to help thinking of the possibility, especially when thinking about him, about his strength and skill on the court, the tears she’d seen once and wanted badly to tenderly wipe away, the funny way she felt whenever she saw him without his shirt on, and how his voice made her excited whenever she heard it. She hadn’t told anyone, and she didn’t think she ever would tell anyone, him least of all, but she was beginning to think she was in love.  
  
“Let me be friends with him,” she whispered to the ceiling. “That’s all I can ask for. We can comfort each other when we lose and mock each other when we say stupid things. Let me be important to him, let him care about me. If it makes him happy to marry Kim, let me be invited to the wedding; I won’t spend it feeling sorry for myself, I promise. But more than that, let me know this man. Let me know all the feelings he doesn’t show on court, let him tell me what he’s thinking. Let me be able to call him whenever I want, knowing he’ll tell me everything. Next time he’s in a slump like this, let him not be afraid to confide. And let him be willing to return the favour, let him want to. That would be better than just being his girlfriend anyway. Let him call me within the next few days.”  
  
Two days later, he called her and sent her pictures of Barcelona. She was smiling for the rest of the day.  
  
 **Metro Station-Seventeen Forever**  
 _...and we can get away with this tonight._  
  
Wimbledon 2011 had not ended well for either Britain’s great male or great female hope. The latter had been humiliated in the first round, and the former had finally made the final, only to lose to Federer in straight sets yet again. Andy had in fact forgotten about Laura’s woes by the time his became the woes of everyone in the country, her included, but when he happened to spot her in the audience during the trophy ceremony, he had a fleeting moment to think that at least he wasn’t alone in being disappointed in this tournament.  
  
Neither would have predicted the other would have ended up as their company that evening, but it happened; she sought him out, desperate to escape her family and usual friends. “And you’re the only person my parents would trust with me that I can stand seeing right now.”  
  
They drove on purpose to the other side of London, where they were so hungry they stopped for fish and chips and wolfed them down in an obscure corner of a public park; Andy hadn’t eaten at all that day and Laura hadn’t eaten much either. Then they sat on a bench together and watched the first appearance of the stars.  
  
He did know she’d been trying to lose her virginity for nearly half a year, ironically about the length of time he’d been undisputedly single again, and that she’d been thwarted by first one thing than another. But he honestly hadn’t seen that as at all relevant to his evening, before she commented on it, and then added, “Do you know this is the by far the longest I’ve even been alone with anyone of the opposite sex other than my father or a member of my coaching team?”   
  
“Find someone other than me tonight for this,” he said hastily. “The next girl I get into bed I am going to be very rough with; you don’t want that to be you.”  
  
“Ouch,” she replied, “That bad?” and changed the subject.  
  
So nothing would have happened, if later her phone hadn’t rung, and she hadn’t had a weird conversation with her parents that had somehow ended with her asking Andy if she could crash at his place. “Apparently half of London is riddled with traffic accidents. That’s probably your fault, you know.” He only marveled at just how much he was trusted. Which should have made him swear to himself right there that still nothing would happen. But maybe even at that moment, he knew better.  
  
He did know better for sure moments before the two of them passed through his front door. In the moonlight their hands touched, and their eyes met. When the door clicked behind him they fell on each other, and she caught him unawares with her aggression, her tongue knocking past his teeth as she seized him by the hair, pressing her body to his-only to squeak when his erection stirred against her.  
  
In the bedroom it was different; she pulled away from him before undressing herself, didn’t look at him until she was down to her underwear. But when he stripped down he heard her breath catch, and then she did look; he saw her fear be driven away by hunger. “Andy, I…” she whispered, and somewhere in her girl’s face he saw the woman emerging, who had either known everything he’d known or would in time, and that included his pain tonight, and whose hands were tender on his skin as she sighed into another kiss.  
  
“Guide my hands,” he whispered to her, and she did; she did know her own body, and with her aid he had her panting and arching into his touch before he talked her through putting the condom on and took her. There didn’t seem to be any pain; there certainly was no blood, but to his dying day he would remember the look of shock on her face at having a man’s cock inside her for the first time. Despite his earlier warning he tried to be gentle, but she wasn’t; she bucked and grasped and pulled and met his thrusts with growing confidence and excitement; finally he focused on keeping his thumb on her clit and then fucked her as hard as he needed, lost in her body, her breathing, meeting wild eyes for a moment before they snapped shut, she clenched hard and loud around him, and he felt her body shudder, drawing him in deep until he roared his release, coming hard enough to see stars, collapsing on top of her and whimpering at the most intense sex he’d had in a long while.  
  
“Oh god,” she was gasping. “Oh god, oh god, oh god…”  
  
 **The Killers-Andy You’re a Star**  
 _...promise me she's not your world..._  
  
“You accidently ruined me for boys my own age,” she told him at the Australian Open, when they got one of their rare chances to talk openly about their little secret, and she meant it only half in jest. Getting Andy, if just for the one time, had made her bolder; six months later there’s been several others, and she’d gone from them all wishing for someone of at least Andy’s basic competence, or even willingness to admit they needed their hands guided. She knew better than to hope for the heart-pounding passion that she’d been lucky enough to share with him that one time.  
  
She was too embarrassed to really explain it, though, and she could certainly never tell him she now spent most of her nights with her hand and her memories of him. He’d probably never feel comfortable in her company again if he knew that she still spent the months longing for his company as if she was really in love with him.  
  
She knew she wasn’t in love with him. She’d grown up enough that that she was no longer fooled by her own infatuations. She was in love with the ideal of a romance between them, the thought of their battling for their country through the world of tennis together. She was in love with the thought that she might be that special one, the one the greatest British tennis player of the modern age loved. Even though she could never be worthy of him.  
  
It wasn’t even that she was that bad a tennis player. By the time she was eighteen, she knew her serve was better than half the WTA top 100, not that this said much. She won matches and that February she even claimed her first WTA title-but for every triumph, it felt like she choked again against a player she should have beaten, or at least been competitive against. It was that way for most of them, she saw. Knowing she was no better than anyone else hurt, more than she thought it would, but at least when she walked onto the court at a Masters event or a Grand Slam, she knew she had as much right to be there as anyone she might see on the other side of the net, and she did think she could win a slam one day. She hoped it was Wimbledon, but she’d settle for any of them.  
  
But Andy, Andy was going to be a legend. Andy was going to win Wimbledon; she felt like punching things whenever she heard or read any suggestion otherwise. And she? She didn’t think she was going to be a legend. A footnote in history if she won Wimbledon, but no more.   
  
Of course, legends were in short supply, so maybe Andy couldn’t have one. But if he couldn’t, she thought, he ought to instead have someone like Mirka Federer. Someone who was willing to devote her life to giving him the kind of support men like him needed. Someone like Kim Sears might have been, but ultimately (understandably enough) chosen not to be. She knew she wasn’t capable of being that woman.  
  
Meanwhile, she had become convinced that part the reason for his woes in early 2010 had been all the drama with his former girlfriend, the heartache and uncertainty when it had come to her. She never, ever, ever wanted to be that. She’d rather be a stranger to him than a distraction.  
  
So half the time she pestered Andy for his company; it amazed her that he very rarely seemed annoyed, and half the time she told herself not to. She clung to the hope that it all balanced out and he didn’t notice anything weird about her behavior.   
  
It was always okay when the two of them were together. She criticized his fashion sense or lack thereof; he rolled his eyes at her choice of music. They could talk about everything from their hopes and fears about upcoming tournaments to the gossip of their friends and the embarrassing penalties of the tennis-football matches he played with his team. He taught her the game in Indian Wells, while she started to instruct him in backslang.   
  
It was when they were apart, and she saw his face in the newspaper, or watched on her laptop as he carried the Olympic torch through Dunblane, or when they texted either too much or too little, because sometimes she got five messages from him in one day and sometimes two weeks passed without either of them sending anything to the other, that she felt the longing. Longing to be something to him, longing not to be too much, and, as time went on, longing for it all to be normal again.  
  
But it wouldn’t be until that May, when she finally fell in love for real.  
  
 **Death Cab for Cutie-Soul Meets Body**  
 _And I do believe it's true that there a roads left in both our shoes..._  
  
When Andy first heard at the French Open that Laura was getting a boyfriend, he was amused-until he heard said boyfriend was Bernard Tomic.  
  
“I don’t know what your young friend sees in him,” Ross said when he delivered the news, but Andy actually thought he himself did, because he knew her well enough: she had a weakness for the bad boy. That might have even been what had caused her friendship and fling with him; she was open about liking that everyone wished he was English and wished he was gentleman, and that he was neither. Though even so, he wished she was mature enough not to confuse a bad boy with a brat.  
  
“You don’t approve of Bernard, do you?” she asked him much later that summer, as they practiced together two days before the Olympics began.  
  
“I’ve never lied to you,” he said. “No, I don’t. But you love him, don’t you?” It was easy for him to tell; the way she talked about him and the way she looked at him; she was obviously crazy about him, and what could anyone do about that? “Just remember who you yourself are. He’s very egotistical; you know he’s egotistical, and he won’t consider your career when he asks things of you, so you have to make sure you do.”  
  
“Do you really think I’m a wilting flower?” she demanded archly, and he had to smile, because he certainly did not. It made him feel better, to know in the end she could take care of herself.  
  
That was all they said on the subject of her boyfriend, and the following week proved one of the most enjoyable of Andy’s life, if still one of the more stressful. She had already been a fun doubles partner, and now she was one who only giggled when it was actually called for(though the way the two of them were together, it ended up being called for a lot), and one who was eighteen instead of fifteen, so he didn’t have to watch what he said as much. There was one point where he wished she hadn’t chewed him out so much for shanking at an extremely bad time(like she could speak; she shanked more than he did), but that was all right. And they won. In fact, not only did they win, but they upset the top seeds in the first round, which teased them with the thought they might be able to win this thing, but didn’t raise too much pressure because their singles was unarguably their focus. Their doubles was a great way to relax.  
  
This agreeable state of affairs lasted until the quarterfinals, when they both lost their singles matches. By now the schedule was starting to exhaust them too, and the rain making them wait to play their doubles match under that damn roof didn’t improve Andy’s mood much.  
  
The preceding match was deep in the third set when Laura found him, out in the hallway, staring at the images of the past winners of the title they both still longed for above anything else, especially now that she was finally ready to contend for it. Looking at them with him she said, “I just ran into your friend Stan Wawrinka.”  
  
“Really? What’s he doing here?” He wasn’t in the tournament any longer in either singles or doubles.  
  
“Don’t know, but that’s not important.” They turned to each other, and he guessed what she was going to do. He should have stopped her, he supposed, but he liked it, the touch of her hand to his chin and the gentle warmth of her lips; reserved, now, but still deeply affectionate, perhaps even more than it had been before. “We might have gotten more praise for winning in singles,” she said, “but I kind of really, really like the idea of winning together.”  
  
He nodded; it was appealing, to take her with him on what just might count as the biggest victory as her career so far, and to solidify on the court and on the podium a friendship that had reached the point where just a simple, almost symbolic gesture from her brought such peace to his heart.  
  
He would know later that he’d needed that emotional support, too, for all three of their remaining matches were ferocious battles. Alone, perhaps neither of them would have stood a chance. He especially thought that after the semi-finals, when he caught her crying hysterically after they barely survived, and with her boyfriend nowhere in sight either(her breakdown might have been partly because of this); he sat next to her and held her hands until she calmed down. Yet the day of the final she was all smiles, as if the outcome was never in doubt. Just before the super-tiebreak he teased her about bursting into tears again, and she laughed and said she was disappointed in him, for thinking that day was like the previous one.  
  
And then they were listening to “God Save the Queen” with a pair of gold medals around their necks. It was obviously one of the better days he’d had, but her absolute elation as they stood there was truly remarkable, so much that he said so two days later, which was the first time after the match they got a moment alone.  
  
But he wasn’t so happy when he heard her response: “Well, I had just won Olympic Gold, and beside the bloke’s who still going to win Wimbledon one of these days, I’m sure, and when I still can’t assume it’ll get any better for me than that…”  
  
“Don’t,” he cut her off hastily. “Whatever you do, don’t ever make such assumptions. In fact, here’s saying right now you’ll end up winning your first slam before I do.” He couldn’t fully mean it, of course, because he really did need to win a slam as quickly as possible, but his sentiments carried enough vehemence that he saw her receive them with great surprise.  
  
 **Clay Aiken-I Will Carry You**  
 _...when courage starts to disappear I will be right here._  
  
When Laura first learned about the injury that nearly ended Andy’s career, he was in his optimistic phase about it. “I’ll miss the fall season, but I should be back for the finals,” he said. He was a bit vague on the physical details, calling it a “hip injury.” Later she would learn that was as much then as he and his doctors had been certain about.  
  
From there, she thought it must have gone bad pretty quickly; for over a week she heard nothing from him, which was more uncommon between them than it had used to be, and then, when she was getting ready to play in Japan, a single text,  _i hope u make yec bcause i wont._  
  
By the time he publically announced his withdrawal she’d learned worse; he had damaged vertebrae and was in serious danger of having to retire still without a slam to his name. Then word of it leaked to the press and for a week whenever she saw a newspaper she looked away, not wanting to see the headlines. But when she did have to go to Istanbul for the WTA finals-as the third alternate-she couldn’t escape the questions. Bernard pointed out the unfairness of all the questions in her press conference being about Andy. She cared less about the unfairness than that she simply didn’t want to deal with them.   
  
She got a chance to see Andy when he attended the ATP finals as an audience member, and what she heard from him didn’t sound good. But that was nothing compared to what she heard from him on her phone, recorded and spoken to her live, when he returned to the practice court as 2013 got underway and the Australian Open came and went. He couldn’t get the ball across the net anymore, he fretted. His footwork was non-existent, he worried. He hadn’t won a game against his trainers in a week, he cried. The pain was back and he had to spend time off the court yet again, he despaired.  
  
As it happened, he wasn’t her only source of information on the situation; a few things did come to her through the grapevine. The picture they painted wasn’t very good either, but it actually wasn’t as bad. She started to wonder if he just needed more patience; she remembered his slump after that Australian Open when she’d been 16, his dramatic reaction to that setback; this might just be another case of that.  
  
The day after she landed in Indian Wells, he left her a voice-mail, and said brokenly, “I’m done. I’m flying back to London before things get underway south of here in Miami.” When she got the message, she called his coach, and learned they were trying and failing to drag him onto the court; and they thought it was far from hopeless if they could just convince him, but were on the verge of giving up.  
  
She lost in the first round. She didn’t know if it was because of him, and that thus justified her next course of action, but either way, she was through with watching him fall apart from a distance. Unfortunately since his current location in Florida was semi-secret, she had to wait until she could get her trip there booked without anyone noticing, but then she left a note and was off.  
  
She found him in a messy hotel room, his hair a frightening sight, playing video games with red-rimmed eyes. She turned his console off and nearly kicked him to his feet as he stared at her in shock.  
  
“You’re not going to do this to yourself,” she said simply. “I will stand here, and I will yell, and I will miss Miami if I have to, and I don’t care how frustrating it is; I’ve heard enough from your team and from my own sources and I know you well enough to know your biggest problem right now isn’t your injured spine; it’s your injured pride. I’ve heard enough to know that if you know your own game at all, you should realize that yourself. It’s not like this hasn’t happen to you before. Sort of.” She was half bluffing, but either she was right, or there never had been any hope anyway.  
  
“What did Ivan say to you?” he asked, no doubt intending to sound hostile, but instead he just sounded neutral.  
  
“He doesn’t even know I’m here, if that’s what you’re asking; I called him after your last message to me to ascertain the situation, but I didn’t tell him what I intended to do about it.”  
  
“Very well, I’ll ask again, what did he say to you?”  
  
So she told him. Through three years of banter with him, she knew it was always a good thing to be able to spell out facts, so she did. She shouted down his protests, but did her better work, she knew, at a more normal volume. The next day, he was back at practice, and in gratitude he and his team invited her to train with them for the week.  
  
It wasn’t fixed overnight, of course. Andy was still at his most stubborn and most pissed off. The day before she went down to Key Biscayne, she witnessed a terrible scene between him and his coaches. Before she left that day, he cornered her and pleaded, “Win in Miami. Please, you have to.”  
  
It was kind of strange, she thought as she made the journey. Normally feeling pressure to win something made her choke. But somehow, here, a single plea from Andy had turned the emotional stakes so high that something inside her seemed to have clicked, and left her beyond fear. She thought she might play her best tennis in a long while.  
  
When she made the final, Andy and his team came down to cheer her on, and perhaps they were only people in the arena who weren’t shocked when she brought Henin down 6-1 in the third set. Her first Masters shield was going to be one of her sweetest-if, that was, her pre-tournament endeavour had the desired result as well. Wary of media harassment, they stayed such a short time she didn’t get a chance to talk to Andy in person, but Ivan came to see her, and just said, “Thank you.” He was still very anxious, and she thought she would be too for some time yet, but she knew on instinct she had done all she was allowed to do, and the rest was out of her hands.  
  
Her own team hadn’t been so happy with her, which was understandable, but once she’d won, they forgave. Only Bernard’s behavior rankled with her, from the complete temper tantrum he greeted her with, to his icy refusal to be happy for her-the rest of the week she could have forgiven, could have even thought maybe she did deserve it, but not that. She knew he was jealous of Andy, and to her then, seeing their relationship as having evolved beyond the sexual, it seemed petty and shallow of him. And while none of this made it hurt any less when three months later he dumped her on the eve of Wimbledon, it would help her in retrospect to keep things in perspective.  
  
 **Evan & Jaron-Crazy For This Girl**  
 _...and I don't know why, but she's changed my mind._  
  
On that last Sunday before the biggest one of his life, Andy supposed he must have been in love with Laura already, but as he’d shared that long lunch with her, keeping her quiet company, most of his thoughts concerning his own heart had been about Kim, and how both his breakups with her seemed rolled into what Laura was experiencing then; both the shock of having one’s heart broken for the first time, and the quieter death of losing someone you knew already you were going to lose. Of course he’d been with Kim much longer than she’d been with Tomic, but the emotions had still all been there. It had been a very long week and a half for them both. As for Tomic’s accusations about how he’d broken them up by being in love with her and making her fall in love with him, they’d honestly seemed absurd to them both.  
  
And yet when, having gone to sleep still oblivious, he woke up Monday morning in a new state of awareness, there was no feeling of shock, no arguments with himself, not even any concerns about the implications of what he felt, at least not yet-though there would be later. There was simply the knowledge that he was in love with Laura Robson, that Bernard Tomic had devastated her, probably failed to appreciate or even fully respect her, and had also probably dumped her the exact time he had on purpose, and that he was to meet said man in Wimbledon’s Round of 16 that afternoon.  
  
He thought later some part of his unconscious mind had decided to push it to the surface because if he’d gone out there not understanding the full extent of his anger against his opponent, he probably would’ve lost the match. As it was, it was just another one of his Wimbledon epic Monday five-setters(he tended to have a lot of those), where victory felt a touch sweeter than usual for more than one reason. In the press conference Tomic went public with his accusations, and Andy answered them with perfect truth: he was only friends with Laura, but if his existence was enough to split them up, then he was not impressed with Tomic at all, and he hoped Laura’s next boyfriend would be a better man(a little tactless, but he could have said much, much worse). If he left out that he wouldn’t mind being her next boyfriend himself…well, he wasn’t yet sure he dared hope for that, if he hadn’t become too much of a brother to her now. Whoever the boyfriend was, he wasn’t going to be anytime soon, that was for sure. Tomic ought to be flattered how much she was weeping over him, ten times more than such an asshole deserved.  
  
He was pretty proud when he won his semi-final, but the problem was, Roger had won the other one. He might be getting on in years now, but when it was only his second tournament back the bigger disadvantage was Andy’s. He didn’t know if he could yet beat the bloke best-of-three, let alone best-of-five, and with that uncertainty, he knew, he really would be doomed. Friday night he went to bed at loss at how to find confidence.  
  
Then the next day was Laura’s first slam final.  
  
The rest of her box was a mess of anxiety, as was Andy before she hit the first ball, but very quickly he came to realize the same thing had happened to her as had happened in Miami; she had come to see failure as not being an option, and thus was playing with no nerves at all. Of course, she was playing Serena Williams, who wasn’t going to choke either, but she didn’t even seem to worry about her best not being enough, and somehow, even when she lost the first set, Andy found he didn’t either. Mostly; he spent the second set tiebreak feeling some mild terror; when she won that the stadium went crazy. And then all he thought was that she was absolutely beautiful out there, with her strong strokes, her quick feet, and most of all the steely look in her eye, her unwavering strength through fifteen games, and then even more when she finally broke, and the last game went to deuce six times-until suddenly, as if she’d had enough of it, Laura fired off two aces, and Wimbledon was hers.  
  
And he didn’t know how, but by the time he watched her hold up the Venus Rosewater Dish with arms he was sure were aching, he started to feel like he could do the same. Maybe it was the feeling bubbling up beneath his smile, all the love and pride and simple gladness she was finally smiling and meaning it again, and he knew there was only one moment that would feel better than this. The only question was what stood between this moment and that one.  
  
It turned out to be one day, five sets, nearly five hours, sixty-eight games, seven overly long games, two tiebreaks, plenty of points that were instant selections for the highlights reel, three times he ran out of challenges, one fall on his hip that made him momentarily fear he’d reinjured himself, one brief rain delay where he frantically prayed they’d wait it out instead of closing the roof, one comeback from Roger when he thought he’d actually gotten him, two guys getting thrown out after the second set for Andy didn’t even know what, one collision with a ballkid where he apologized in near hysterics and was told by the kid to calm down so he could please win, and twenty games in the final set, as well as every ounce of strength, skill, stubborness, hope, belief, desire, and sheer desperation he had in him.   
  
As he heard the umpire struggle to make a final “Advantage Murray” heard over the screams of the crowd, Andy was all too aware of the entire island holding its breath. He’d double-faulted on one match point already.  
  
 _Just one serve,_  he told himself.  _Just one more serve._  He wanted badly to pray, but he couldn’t spare the mental energy. As he bounced the ball, he watched it rise and fall as if in slow motion. His stomach twisted as he sent it up into the air.  
  
It was one of the best serves he’d ever hit. It said much about Roger that he got his racquet on it, even if he couldn’t hit it anywhere near the court.  
  
He fell to the grass; his body instinctively scrunched itself into a ball. His insides were churning so hard he thought he might pass out. He screamed in complete silence; there was no sound for joy this great.   
  
He found Laura in the foyer, standing between the bulletin boards and grinning as she looked back and forth at their names placed opposite each other, the two of them legends made together. He froze, and words tangled themselves up in his throat; he needed to thank her for getting him to believe the previous day, or even again for getting him off his arse that day in March. But it was impossible; all he could do was pull her into a hug.  
  
When he finally managed to speak, it was to say, “Told you you’d win your slam first.”  
  
“By one day,” she laughed; it was the sweetest sound he‘d ever heard. She pulled back so they could smile at each other, say what words could never have communicated. Say too much, perhaps, and he hoped she wouldn’t recognize what she was seeing, see in the love he couldn’t conceal only the fraternal affection that not long ago they’d both believed it to be. Maybe someday she could know otherwise, but it was still too soon.  
  
Then she disentangled herself and pointed to the club entrance. “You’ve got to show them that trophy,” she reminded him, and nudged him on his way, and much as he felt the lack of her, it was also a relief, because he didn’t know how much longer he could have checked the ache to kiss her.  
  
 **Delta Goodrem-In This Life**  
 _...and I'm living and I'm believing that I was meant to be your girl._  
  
Many things changed in a girl’s life after she won Wimbledon; Laura had known that already. But the one she hadn’t anticipated was the one she eventually felt the most; she and Andy had already been close, but by the time the US Open was going into its second week she started to notice they were eating practically all their lunches together, she talked more to him than to everyone else put together, if she wanted company for any reason he was the first person who sprung to her mind, and he seemed to likewise be seeking her out all the time. Her other friends were asking serious questions, and one of them had a pretty accurate comment: “You couldn’t spend more time together if you actually were dating.”   
  
Of course, she told herself, it could have just been because Bernard was no longer there to interfere, especially not now, when he was finally gone in spirit too. She didn’t even feel guilty over his accusations anymore.  
  
Then there was the night after they’d both lost in the semi-finals; when they hit the town for an adventure together, which ended at dawn with them stumbling back into her hotel, then, because they still didn’t feel like turning in yet, going up to the roof and watching the rising sun illuminate the city before falling onto their backs and staring at wispy clouds.  
  
“We ought to have tea with us,” said Laura, though she wasn’t sure why; maybe she should have gone to bed.  
  
“Way too early in the morning,” he protested. “Besides, I thought you preferred cappuchino.”  
  
“But I can’t stand the version they serve here in America,” she said, as he yawned. “People ought to bring intravenous caffeine with them to the States. Don't you agree?” No response. She looked over at him, and saw he’d fallen asleep.  
  
Feeling impossibly content and at peace, Laura stared at the clouds, and then the city, and then her companion. Over the past two years, he’d become her most trusted confidant, her truest friend, her first lover, her partner in glory, and finally, the most important man in her life. And now when she scooted up to him and resisted the temptation to touch his hair, she became happily aware that she looked at him differently now; she was no longer below him. She thought of her teenage angst about not deserving his attention, and laughed internally, because she’d helped him win Wimbledon, as he’d helped her.  
  
And then she first felt it, the overpowering wish to never be anywhere but with him, the adoration of a sort she hadn’t been capable of before where she saw him clearly and it only made her feel even more for him, the thought of their future together, that staying as were now could be very good, but that having more would be even better. And then the fear kicked in, and she drew away, climbed up onto her knees and clutched at her stomach, as love shocked her system, left her at a loss of what to do next.  
  
She wouldn’t know what to do during the next few months either. By the time he was cheering her on in the WTA finals, now held in London, she was pretty sure too that he knew, because she didn’t think she was very good at hiding things from him. That he hadn’t done anything in response wasn’t a good sign.  
  
On New Year’s Eve she was present at his knighting, and spent the rest of the night addressing him as “Sir Andrew” because she knew it would make him blush. “I don’t know why you’re not getting made a Dame,” he said afterwards. “You won Wimbledon too.”  
  
“Because I couldn’t tease you then,” she replied.   
  
“Yeah, well, count yourself lucky. I think you’re the only person allowed to call me ‘Sir Andrew.’”  
  
It was her turn to blush. And it couldn’t help but hurt that he didn’t react at all.  _Be grateful,_  she told herself,  _that you get as much of him as you do. Once upon a time, you refused to ask for more. This was what you wanted, right?_  
  
 **Vanessa Carlton-Come Undone**  
 _I know I'm done, I come undone for you..._  
  
By the time six months had passed and Laura seemed pretty much recovered from Tomic, Andy had come to realize that he had to tell her eventually, if only because sooner or later she was sure to figure it out for herself, and also because even if she rejected him, it probably wouldn’t be as bad as this silent agony-if their friendship survived it; he thought it would, but he hated not being sure.  
  
But about that time her behavior turned weird. It started midnight on New Year’s Eve, where as the countdown ended she launched herself onto him-then at the last moment turned her head and barely caught his cheek, as if she’d changed her mind. On the court at the Hopman Cup, which they played together again, she sometimes held his hand during the changeovers, only to suddenly turn wide-eyed, as if she’d realized what she was doing, and pull away, and then sometimes run away from him after the match was over. He feared she had figured it out, and then was left so unnerved that even after the mixed signals stopped he was unsure if to speak was at all a good idea.  
  
They didn’t start to feel normal again until the clay season, when a surface they both disliked and the first pinch of the upcoming pressure of Wimbledon drove them back to each other, able to temporarily ignore the new elephant in the room. He wouldn’t tell her, he decided, until after Wimbledon. Before then, neither of them needed the possible fallout. After Wimbledon, he would leave the option open.  
  
Neither of them even reached the final. It wasn’t the end of the world, Andy told himself, especially not now, but it stung. The morning of the Ladies final they met in a café and talked about fleeing London for the weekend. They threw out destinations of everywhere from Bristol to Loch Ness, and even debated whether to risk the airport. Then Laura hit on the idea of Northern France, and they tried to figure out which city. “Let’s go back to my place,” Andy suggested, “and find a map of the train routes.”  
  
It wasn’t the first time since that crazy night back when she’d been seventeen that she’d been to his house, but even so, the significance of her climbing into his car without hesitation was much on his mind. Had it really only been three years since then? It felt now like they’d been like this all their careers. This should be easy, and yet he was frightened into silence. And maybe it was because it was Wimbledon again and they’d both lost again, but when they stepped over his threshold the memories were vivid, of her as an eager virgin, a kindred soul which he had only started to recognize at the time, staking the first of her many claims on his body, mind, and/or heart-and now the final claim on all three would be easy for her, but did she want it, and did he dare offer it out loud?  
  
“Do you ever think about it?” she asked quietely. “That night when we…” She drifted off. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.  
  
“Do you ever wank over it?” she tried, and she wore a smirk that he instantly knew was very false; she was scared.   
  
And that was unacceptable. Whether she knew or not, he had to speak it and hope it worked out.  
  
He started by answering her question truthfully. “I did a few times when I was younger, but I can’t anymore, because I didn’t…I can’t think….I had the girl, and now I want the woman.”  
  
Was her shock because of what he said, or because he’d said it? Never mind; he pressed on, “I know she’s probably grown out of me when it comes to that. But Laura, tell me honestly, is there any chance at all…in the…in how you…” Damn it, he didn’t have words for this kind of thing.  
  
But a moment later he didn’t need them, because once again he had been shoved back against the door, and she hissed at him,  _“You. Thick. Oaf.”_  Then she crushed their mouths together.  
  
 **Hellogoodbye-Here in Your Arms**  
 _Our lips can touch, and our cheeks can brush..._  
  
Being with Andy both was and wasn’t like Laura had speculated as a teenager.  
  
The ways in which she had been right were both good and bad. Andy was still her Andy, he still rolled his eyes when she gushed about romantic movies, still allowed noone but her to call him “Sir Andrew” and still without fail always texted her something to cheer her up after a loss. But on the other hand, they were still Andy and Laura, the saviours of Britain-which Andy winning the US Open that September didn’t help, and while it was kind of sweet that when they’d given up trying to keep the relationship under wraps the whole country had apparently exploded with joy all over again, she would have appreciated it had they then left the two of them alone.  
  
It gave her serious worries sometimes too, because she knew well that seemingly loving couples were torn apart by too much media attention. They could keep the cameras outside their walls and occasionally insist their press conferences have tennis-related questions only, but there were days in London in December when it still drove her crazy. In January when Andy went up against Novak Djokovic after the match she ended up confiding her fears to his wife, since she knew he was very famous in Serbia. “It is not easy,” she said simply. “It is never easy. But your relationship must be more strong than your fame; that is the only way.”  
  
Laura could believe that they were very strong; they had already been, and in the face of rumours and hopeful speculations even back when she’d been dating Bernard. But at the same time, it wasn’t every single moment the perfect passionate love affair she’d once daydreamed about. Not only were they apart a lot, but there were long stretches of hours when she didn’t miss him, even if his absence often hit her hard in the evenings. They had arguments over things like his never making the bed. They loyally sat in each other’s boxes whenever they were in town for it, but much of the time she got bored, and when she asked him he bluntly admitted the same-but she loved that he was still blunt.  
  
And there was the happiest surprise, that some of the best things were the simple things. Such as when doping control woke them both up early to drag her into the bathroom, after they left she could lay down on top of the blankets in her bathrobe, pressed body to body with him through the covers, and they just talked until it was time for breakfast. As she’d thought, the reunion sex was great, but sometimes she thought his reunion smile was even better; he still wasn’t very good with expressing his feelings in words, but that smile said it all. She loved to comb his hair; he usually messed up hers when he touched it, but she kind of liked that.  
  
She had no longer even worried about possibly being bad for him; she knew she wasn’t. And then, as if to refute what she had once believed, life started interfering with that question, because while Andy was the first of the two of them to win his second slam, he then didn’t win another one, while she won a third, then a fourth, and then when she stumbled off Centre Court clutching the Venus Rosewater Dish for the second time for her fifth, she was forced to face that she was the one becoming the runaway success; of course he ‘d only ever needed to do one thing, which he’d done, but if either of them was risking getting labelled as the distraction, it wasn’t her anymore, it was him.  
  
By then he was into his thirties, and they had been together for years, and she asked him if it made him bitter. “Not your success,” he said. “Only finishing with two, though… bitter’s not the word, but…”  
  
“Disappointed?”  
  
“Maybe. But in fact, I can say this: if I couldn’t win more, you’d better win as many as possible.”  
  
And she loved that he said that so much she had to kiss him and thank him.   
  
 **Amanda Marshall-Love Lift Me**  
 _...better batten down the hatches, baby, here we go again._  
  
Having now been retired for over a year and a half, Andy had honestly hoped there’d be a little less media attention for this. He shouldn’t have been so foolish. They’d all known it was over once someone had gotten their hands on the date and that it was happening here in Dunblane.  
  
The result was that Laura had snuck into the church long before dawn, carrying her outfit and make-up in three plastic bags, and was dressing in the little room where she had been penned up since he’d snuck in himself. He was left to pace the church for lack of anything better to do, before retreating to the men’s room to get his kilt on. Jamie went with him, “Just to make sure you don’t panic when it hits you what you’re doing.” As if he hadn’t very thoroughly thought over that matter before he’d proposed in the first place.  
  
Really, the only reason to panic came later, when they were all assembling for the ceremony, and he first heard that outside the church, it sounded like the reporters were rioting. Laura and his mother would both throw a fit if the wedding was disrupted. As the music began, he swallowed, and hoped they could get through it quickly.  
  
But if the commotion outside was worrying his bride, she showed no sign of it. She looked absolutely beautiful, her face glowing as she walked with her father to him. Her lips moved as she tried to whisper him something; he’d have to ask her about that later.  
  
“I used to daydream about this moment, back when I was too young for you,” she said to him, when it came time to speak their vows. “At the time, I imagined the two of us together as perfect. Then I found out we weren’t. Then I found out we were even better than that. I don’t even know anymore when you became the best part of my life, only that now I can’t imagine becoming who I am now-or who I’ll be in the future-without you. I can still only hope to do for you what you’ve done for me.” She could make a good sentimental public vow, he thought, though there was much in what she was saying they would never discuss except between themselves.  
  
He, on the other hand, speaking after her, could only say up front: “I’m not really good at this sort of thing. I’d just as soon get out of this church and get on with actually being a good husband to you.” There was some laughter. Some of it from the audience sounded uncomfortable, but from Laura it sounded overjoyed, and that was all that mattered about that. Now came the part that was going to make him turn red. “I can only say,” deep breath, “that I love you, you’ve been amazing, and nothing makes me happier than this.” She was blushing too, in sympathy. It made him love her more.  
  
And then the rest of it had flown by; there were identical rings on their fingers and they were kissing, and this was beyond heaven, and maybe it was hitting him now after all, exactly what he was doing, and all he could think was  _This is it._  
  
The spell lasted all the way to the church door, when the two of them stood before it, and the noises outside were downright scary. Then Laura turned to the preacher, who’d come with them, and asked, “Is there another way out of here generally not known about? They’ve probably got the back door covered too by now.”  
  
“There’s a side entrance,” he offered. “Probably your best chance.”  
  
“We’ll go out there and hold them off,” his mother offered.  
  
Unfortunately it turned out a handful of reporters had found that entrance too. They emerged into a hailstorm of camera flashes, looked at the group, looked at each other, and took off.  
  
Andy was glad then he was still in shape, at least enough to outrun a bunch of photographers. But Laura was stuck in a huge white dress, which she stumbled over as she struggled to hold her skirts up. “If I fall,” she was panting, “it’ll be all over the papers and we’ll never hear the end of it.”  
  
“Don’t think we’ll hear the end of this anyway,” he commented absently as he finally picked up her up, making her squeal. “You’ve gotten heavier.”  
  
“Damn, I was intending to lose weight. And my car’s a couple of blocks away.”  
  
Which would have made it more efficient to just walk to the reception, but Andy reached the car out of breath and barely ahead of their chasers. Plus she was getting restless from being carried, and he knew already she’d probably take it out on the gas pedal.  
  
He wasn’t sure where on her person she’d been carrying her keys, but when he got into the passenger seat she was turning them, and she was grinning like anything, like a woman married to a bloke she knew she was going to be happy with and was going to be happy with her.  
  
Andy buckled in for a wild ride.  
  
[](http://s887.photobucket.com/albums/ac79/sk8rpssockpup/?action=view&current=alfront.jpg) [](http://s887.photobucket.com/albums/ac79/sk8rpssockpup/?action=view&current=alback.jpg)\

Listen to [It's Not Quite Jane Austen](http://open.spotify.com/user/msisobel/playlist/7p48XIAHQiB8SOXD09B8Q0) on Spotify.  Downloads of individual song & zip file are available on request.

 


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